


Advanced Placement

by Morgan_KTreva (Drel_Murn)



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater, Supernatural
Genre: Gen, I Don't Even Know, Magic, Not planned, Possibly sass, Time Travel, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-19 15:26:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9447482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drel_Murn/pseuds/Morgan_KTreva
Summary: Kevin Tran did not know what happened. He didn't like not knowing. And he especially doesn't like being ten.





	1. For Fear

**Author's Note:**

> I probably shouldn't have written this. I probably should have worked on my WIPs. You know how it is though, the plot bunnies drag you kicking and screaming.

I gasp as I sit up, and I blink around the room frantically for a moment before I recognise it. It’s my room. And judging by the poster of Bruce Lee on the opposite wall, it’s my room from when I was ten.

 

_What?_

 

In fact, as I glance around the room, there are all of the little things I’d gotten rid of as I got more involved in orchestra, then in my grades.

 

I flinch as my door swings open, and let out a trembling sigh as it only reveals my mother.

 

“Kevin it’s time to get up.”

 

_Time to -_ my gaze falls on the backpack sitting next to my desk.

 

_Oh. School. I have school._ Something in my stomach wretches, and I shiver as a wave of nausea comes over me.

 

“I - I don’t feel well. Can I stay home today?”

 

My voice trembles, and Mom frowns at me, coming closer and reaching out as if to take my temperature. I flinch away, and another wave of shivering wracks my body. Mom pauses, her frown growing deeper before she pulls back.

 

“Alright,” Mom sighs. “I’ll call the school.”

 

I watch her go, and the moment she’s out of sight I throw the blankets off and scramble for the super-soaker hanging on my wall. I shake it slightly, and let out a wavering sigh of relief at the sound of a mostly full tank.

 

“Holy father as thou art in heaven, blessed be thy name . . .”

 

I quickly run through the blessing, and slide back into my bed with it. Mom comes in moments later and sits down next to me. I feel much less panicked now that I have something to protect me from anything that will come after me, but I’m certain that I won’t be anywhere near calm until I’ve taken every reasonable precaution I can.

 

“I called the school,” Mom says as I shift under the blankets. “You’re lucky today is a Friday, you’ll have three days to recover instead of just the one.”

 

“Thanks,” I say. She smiles at me, and I manage not to flinch away when she reaches out to feel my forehead this time, but my fingers tighten.

 

“Well, you don’t feel like you have a fever. You want me to stay anyways?”

 

“No, go,” I tell her. It’s good to see her and all, but . . . I’m jumpy, and I’m not used to her any more. “I’ll be fine, and if I need you I know your number.”

 

“Alright,” Mom smiles down at me. “See you at four.”

 

She leaves me room, and I listen to her move around the house for a little while before the garage door opens with a familiar rumble. I wait for the garage door to close before I dart out of bed and to the kitchen. I pull open the cupboard door and stare up at the shelves in irritation for a moment before I go to the table and drag a chair over so that I can grab the salt container.

 

I dart back to my room, and a moment’s thought lead to me digging through my desk drawers to find the runny glue. I glance behind me, and before I start putting the glue straight onto the floor, I spot a blanket poking out from under my bed. I pull it out and glance over it. It’s got the book cover of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone on it, and I feel slightly lost as I look at it. I remember the rest of the books - books that haven’t been published yet.

 

I hadn’t really dealt with witches - demons were always the ones interested in me, and leviathans, and angels. The books seem so innocent now, even with the whole war. Harry’s prophecy was so much more straightforward - he didn’t have to wade through information on all of a species to find his prophecy.

 

I flip it over and spread the glue on the bottom side. First - a border around the edge of the whole thing. Then - the salt. I poured it along the edges and made sure it soaked into the glue so it would stay there. Then I sit down in the middle of the blanket - the holy water super soaker by my side - and I let myself shake.

 

_Oh god oh god oh god I’m alive I’m in the past oh god there are still archangels around there’s still that plot to open up Lucifer’s cage -_

 

Breath.

 

_Oh god oh god oh Castiel oh god_

 

Breath, Kevin. You have to breathe.

 

_But oh god I didn’t want any of this -_

 

()

 

I wake up with my stomach grumbling at me and afternoon sunlight glaring into my eyes.

 

I blink at the line of salt glue in front of me, wondering why -

 

I scramble to my feet and look frantically around the room, the super soaker in my hand is steady even as the rest of me shakes.

 

There’s nothing there.

 

_I need silver and iron. Then, I need to learn how to make a demon killing knife._

 

My stomach grumbles again.

 

_And food. I need food too._

 

()

 

By the time Mom is home, I’ve got the Harry Potter blanket spread out on the ground under my bed, the super soaker under the covers next to me, and a pair of knives (silver and iron) from my Mom’s not-really-but-supposed-to-be-secret armory in the attic. I also have the demon exorcism recorded on the . . . kid’s tape recorder I found in lieu of a demon killing knife.

 

“Kevin! I’m back! You feeling better?” Mom calls as she comes in from the garage, and I can hear her keys clatter as she drops them into their dish.

 

“I do,” I call back.

 

She comes up to check on me, then dinner gets made - hot and sour soup like she always makes when one of us is sick - and spends the evening reading a book. I huddle under the blankets as I listen to her brush her teeth then go to bed without bothering me to do the same - again, the usual routine when I’m sick.

 

I wait one hour . . . two hours . . . three hours according to the clock on my bedside table before I dare to move. I carefully pile the weapons I’d assembled into an empty drawstring backpack I found in my closet. The blanket gets wrapped around them to muffle the sound. I add a spare change of clothes, pull on my shoes, silently open my window, and slip out.

 

I close the window, and find myself standing on the lawn, staring into my bedroom because I have nothing better to do. The shivering that had left me a couple of hours ago comes back with a sudden vengeance, and I find myself huddled in my jacket as I try to -

 

_Breath._

 

I take a breath.

 

_Now, first things first. How can you make yourself safer?_

 

I calm slightly at the thought because safer is good, safer is always good.

 

_Anti posession tattoos. Demon knife. Appearance change._

 

I breathe. I remember one of the books I’d read in the bunker while I was taking a break from the tablet.

 

_Pyrokinesis and the ability to almost instantly create boundaries would be nice as well. It’s not like the Men of Letters disagreed, what with the number of them I found who had sworn themselves into Hestia’s service._

 

I breathe.

 

_How can I get these things?_

 

I glance across the lawn, then shoulder my bag.

 

_Let’s see how hard it is to find Hecate's witches._


	2. For Safety

As it turns out, it really wasn’t that hard to find natural born witches. With all that I learned from the tablets, and from the other various books around the bunker, and from things I overheard while I was captured, magic was easy.

 

A quick Point Me, using a couple of weeds from a neighbor’s flowerbed in exchange, gave me a direction, and I set off in that direction, dodging around houses and any other obstacles I encountered. Before long, I found myself at the local ‘magic/new-age/psychic’ shop, and I have to laugh because what better way to hide yourself. And with that revelation, I know exactly who the witches are in my town - they’re all of the people who are friends with or frenemies with or related to the owner, all of the people she’s laughingly told to go to the back.

 

I glance through the window for a moment, taking in the interior for a moment before I crouch down in front of the lock. A bobby pin is produced from the bag on my back after a moment’s digging around, and it takes me another ten minutes to get the lock open - which is decidedly better than the thirty minutes it took me after I first escaped from Crowley.

 

I close and lock the door behind me, then make my way to the doors leading to the back of the shop. I push one open cautiously, then slide through. I have to pause and just look around because this is just as much of a shop as the front was, only the items on display are rather too magical for the general public to ignore. Then I shake my head and make my way over to the door marked Song City.

 

Beyond the door, there’s a deserted street, one that definitely isn’t in my town, and a shiver makes its way down my spine at the realization that it worked. I shoulder by backpack and make my way down the street. According to the Men of Letter’s books, Song City was like every other city, excepting that its inhabitants had magic. So there should be a bad part, one where no one would think twice about giving a kid a tattoo.

 

()

 

I grit my teeth against the pain of the needle as it tears into my skin. I forgot how much this hurt last time. At this point, I’m just glad to be getting the stupid tattoo. The first three parlors turned me away, professing that while they might be murderers and all, they did still have morals.

 

“Alright, kid. You’re done.”

 

I blink and shake my head to get myself out of the daze I’d been in. The black ink stands out starkly against my skin, and I watch as the man presses a uare of white gauze to it and tapes it down.

 

“Thanks.” I my shirt back on and glance over at the man as he quietly moves the equipment he used to a sterilizer. “And the pendant?”

 

“European, brown hair, brown eyes.”

 

The man tosses a necklace at me, and I manage to catch it before it falls to the ground. It’s a small blue clay circle with a stylised sun, strung on a black cord. “Thanks.”

 

I slide off of the seat and pull the necklace over my head. I lift my bag, then wince and quickly transfer it to my other arm as I stroll towards the door. My eyes catch my reflection in the glass of the door for a moment before I’m pulling it open and walking out into the darkness.

 

I wander aimlessly as I consider what else I need to do. I have a disguise, and I have my anti posession tattoo. It would be nice and all to get a demon killing knife, but those weren’t exactly in supply in any number.

 

I glance around at the doors that surround me. The street is full of them, and there aren’t any windows. There’s barely an inch of wall between each door, and above them are name plaques. Above the one to my right is Neighbor, Michigan. The one to my right is home.

 

To my left is Palo Alto, California.

 

It’s funny. You don’t realise how much you know about someone until you have to find them once you’ve gone back in time. It’s 2005, I’m ten and I know where Sam Winchester is.

 

I take the door to my left.

 

()

 

Depending on where you begin the story, it’s about a child. One was not human, but one was a child nevertheless. One’s siblings fought, and one’s siblings fought with their father.

 

Or perhaps one was not a child. One was born to fight, and one had watched the universe come into creation.

 

Had one’s story followed a linear progression of time, then one’s story would not make sense. Perhaps, in the fashion it happened, it still did not.

 

One’s father won against the being that he had created his children to fight and given the opportunity, the universe exploded. Their father looked around at the rapid expanse of space, and the children looked at each other as they found themselves suddenly more and more with the universe. All of the things their father had worked so hard to carefully compress into them, no longer needed to be compressed.

 

Then their father took them and pulled them slip -

 

They come back and God creates more. He peppers the universe with potential. He encourages the small sacks of water filled fat that he finds to find ways to replicate themselves. He sewed planets with magic, and he cultivated sentience.

 

The angels wandered creation under the orders of God, passed through their eldest sibling’s mouth. They found Earth, and watched in awe as it took form - surface cooling, water falling.

 

-sliding forward. The children watched in awe as their father looked over a cooling chunk of rock, orbiting around a burning mass of gas, and saw potential. Their father created, and created and created, chains of chemicals coming together beneath his fingers, chains that created, explosions of creation flowing ever onwards. He created dual roles so that the creation could continue, so that the chemicals would mix and continue to build upon themselves on their own, and he encouraged life.

 

Then, he made something that could think. That thing was called human, in a language that would develop in the future. Human was not made in the father’s images, for he had no image. The human grew and mixed. The humans grew and mixed. They knew of the father, and called him God. They knew of his children, and called them angels, giving them each a different name.

 

Eve, a creature of before - before God decided his sister could not stay, came to the Earth, and in the short amount of time before she was found, she introduced strife.

 

God was enamored with these humans despite their imperfection, for they were not like the angels, they made things that God had not first imagined. He asked his children, are they not perfect?

 

The second eldest, called Morning Star and Poison of God, said to the father that humans were not perfect.

 

God was furious. How could his creation not agree. He said to his child, that even so, you must love them before all, before even me.

 

And his child said that it was not possible.

 

The eldest, called ever by the first question humans had asked him, called ever, Who is like god?, was furious.

 

Are you not an angel? Are you not a creation of our father?

 

The one, the third eldest, ever called God is my Strength, the one the story is about, fled from the destruction of the siblings fighting. One fled, but no corner of space was truly safe except for -

 

Earth. For all of the dislike, the Morning Star would not dare attempt to destroy it. And the one hid.

 

One’s father knew where one was, and he gave one tasks.

 

Then the Morning Star fell.

 

Well, that’s a word to use, and it’s certainly the one humans used when God is my strength tried to explain to them what had happened. But down is relative, and falling even more so. The Morning Star left, was banished, was trapped almost as surely in the realm of his own making as the Darkness was in hers.

 

Still, the one hid. God is my Strength had found that one liked hiding,

 

I need to go, God admitted. I need to leave, to create something else. I see him everywhere I look, and I can’t do this anymore.

 

Then, go, father. I’ll be here when you return.

 

And so God slipped back - and came to visit God is my Strength moments later.

 

You’re still here.

 

The time had worn him down.

 

Gavri’el, god said, the sound of God is my Strength’s name and not the meaning, but the relief was clear. I have for you a gift, and a message.

 

That should have been the end, for Gavri’el found himself given a mess of chemicals that was all hisas God explained to him about vessels.  The chemicals were his - no other soul or grace had a claim to them.

  
But it wasn’t the end.


	3. For New Beginings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being patronized get real old, real fast.

Depending on where you begin the story, it’s about Adam Parrish.

 

Where you begin is important.

 

Where you end, and where you pick up again is just as much so.

 

()

 

As Cabeswater’s magician, Adam had seen some weird things. Seeing people appear out of walls almost wasn’t even something to comment on anymore.

 

Or at least it wouldn’t have been if he was on a ley line. The lack of a ley line didn’t stop him from caring though, and he quickly rushed forward to catch the boy as he stumbled.

 

“Hey, are you alright?”

 

The boy glanced up at Adam with a frown. “Do I - no. I’m fine. Excuse me.”

 

He shrugged off Adam’s grip and started off, leaving Adam watching him with a feeling of bemusement.

 

There was something about him . . .

 

()

 

I glance back at the boy who’d caught me before I round the corner, and I shake my head. That had been odd. One would think that the witches would hide their entrances better.

 

(I ignore the panicking voice in the back of my head that screams you know that feeling, you know that feeling, that’s the feeling of being a prophet. That’s the odd tingling of lightning on your tongue and the feeling of some great weight and the smell of old dust from books and of water and)

 

I scowl at the crack in the sidewalk in front of me before I glance around to look for some more weeds.

 

The Point Me ritual goes well enough, and I scatter the ashes of the weed that I’d grabbed from an overgrown yard. 

 

It takes me twenty minutes to get to Sam’s place, and after an assessing look at the light I can see beneath the door, I knock.

 

“Coming!” someone calls faintly from beyond the door, and I shift my weight. The backpack’s getting a little heavy after all this time carrying it, and after a moment’s consideration, I swing it off my shoulder and onto the ground as the door opens.

 

“Hello?”

 

I look up, and - “Wow. Your hair is really short.”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“Sam, who is it?” a woman’s voice calls from further in the apartment, and I immediately identify Jess.

 

“Some kid!” Sam calls back before turning back to face me. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Your brother’s name is Dean, your father’s name is John, your mother Mary, maiden name Campbell, died when you were six months old, supposedly in a house fire, but your father and your brother always claim that she was held up on the ceiling.” I pause to take a breath, but Sam goes to interrupt me, and I quickly continue, words rushing out of me like air from a leaky tire. “The girl in there is your  girl friend Jess, introduced to you by your friend Brady. You ran away at some point when you were a teenager and went to live in Arizona I think, and you adopt a dog and named it Bones.”

 

Sam glances around, then pulls me inside and shuts the door behind me. He presses me up against the wall with an arm to my chest and hisses at me, “Who are you?”

 

“I’m Kevin,” I reply, and remind myself to breathe. I reach up to take off my pendent, and Sam pins my wrist to the wall beside my head. “Sorry! I was just going to take off my pendent, so you could see me.”

 

Sam gives me a suspicious look, and I try to give it due credit, but I keep getting distracted by his  _ really short hair _ . He pulls the pendent over my head for a moment, before quickly dropping it back down and backing away from me as someone walks into the room.

 

_ Breathe. _

 

“Sam, what’s taking so long?” the girl asks as Sam turns to look at her.

 

“Sorry Jes,” he says, wrapping her in a hug, then turning the both of them to face me. “This, is my cousin Kevin. Say hello, Kevin.”

 

“Hello.”

 

“Nice to meet you Kevin,” Jessica says. She turns in Sam’s embrace to throw her arms over his shoulders. “I didn’t know you had a cousin. What’s he doing here?”

 

_ Breathe. The books described her as a nice person. _

 

“Apparently, he decided that running away was a good idea,” Sam replies, glancing over at me. “I don’t know why he came to me, I’ve only ever seen him once, and I’m fairly sure he doesn’t remember me.”

 

“Can I grab my bag?”

 

“Where is it?” Jessica asks me.

 

“On the floor outside the door.”

 

Jessica turns to Sam with a raised eyebrow, and he shrugs helplessly. “Sorry, kid. I didn’t see it.”

 

“You’d crash and burn without me,” Jessica sighs the familiar line ( _ almost straight out of the books _ ) before she turns and breaks out of Sam’s embrace to come open the door. “That your bag?”

 

“Yeah,” I mumble as I dart out into the hallway to snatch up the bag, an embarrassed flush covering my cheeks. I hadn’t really paid attention to what was on the bag before, but now that someone else is looking at it, I find myself kind of embarrassed by the Rebel Alliance symbol on my bag. I hadn’t really thought of Star Wars in years, and I felt like a fake for owning any merchandise.

 

“Cool,” Jessica says as she shuts the door behind me. “I’m more of a fantasy fan myself, but more power to you. I’ve heard there’s another movie coming out in May, you have any plans to watch it?”

 

_ Breathe Kevin. She won’t bite you. _

 

“I do,” I reply. 

 

“Hey, Jess, why don’t you go on back to bed room. I’m gonna make sure I’ve got Aunt Naomi’s number right before I call her so she’ll stop panic about Kevin, then I’ll set up the couch for him.”

 

“Alright.” Jessica looked faintly amused as she turned around and headed for the door. “Don’t take too long, we’ve got that episode of the X Files to watch still.”

 

“I’ll be there.” Sam smiled at her, and watched as went into the other room. As soon as the door closed, he turned back to me to regard me warily. “How did you know all of that?”

 

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

 

_ Breathe. _

 

I manage not to gasp, but I can’t stop myself from dropping to the ground so I can wrap my arms around my knees.

 

“Try me,” Sam says, unimpressed.

 

“I’m from the future,” I mumble into the fabric of my pants.

 

“Louder.”

 

“I’m from the future,” I snap, looking up at him. “I know you, and a read a stupid book series about your life.”

 

There’s a pause, before Sam breathes out deeply. “Whatever. If you’re just going to lie to me, I won’t even bother. Come on. Help me get the couch set up.”

 

“It’s not like it’s the most unlikely thing you’ve heard,” I grumble as I straighten up and shoulder the backpack.

 

“It’s not exactly something I’ve ever heard of before either.”   
  


()

 

I wake up all at once as the door to the apartment opens with a thump, and I blink at the person standing opposite me as they crouch down.

 

“Not even a salt line. And here I thought he was supposed to be smart.”

 

Dean (because who else could it really be) stands and walks into the apartment. He closes the door behind himself, then looks around in the darkness. His gaze lingers on me for a moment, and I have to remind myself to keep breathing. Then he looks away and starts moving towards the kitchen. I shift silently on the couch as the door opens, and Sam places a hand on my shoulder and lift a finger to his lips to signal quiet. 

 

I watch as he moves quietly into the kitchen and -

 

BANG!

 

I jump out off of the couch and rush into the kitchen with the holy water squirt gun. The two of them are fighting in front of me, throwing punches, and I watch wide eyes as Dean suddenly does something and manages to pin Sam down. “Easy, tiger!”

 

“Dean? You scared the crap out of me!”

 

“You’re out of practice.” Sam does something, and suddenly it’s Dean on his back. “Or not.”

 

The light flicks on, and I glance over at Jess. “Sam?”

 

“Hey Jess,” Sam greets her, standing and pulling Dean to his feet. “This is my brother, Dean. Den, this is Jess.”

 

“And who’s the shrimp?” Dean asks, glancing back at me where I’m clinging to the doorway.

 

“Kevin. He’s Aunt Naomi’s kid.”

 

To his credit, Dean doesn’t hesitate as he walks over to me and crouches down.

 

“Huh. You’re that old now? Time flies.”

 

“Very funny,” I deadpan. I glance over at Sam and Jess, who look to be arguing, before I look back up at Dean. “Hold out your hand.”

 

“Why?” Dean asks, sounding genuinely curious as he does to, and I spray some water onto his hand, over the silver and iron ring.

 

“Salt water. You’re clear.”

 

“I get the salt, but what’s the water for?” Dean asks, smiling up at in a patronizing way.

 

“It’s holy water. Burns demons,” I reply. Dean’s eyes widen for a moment before he shakes his head.

 

“Well, at least you’ve got imagination.”

 

“Dean, why are you here?” Sam asks as Dean stands up.   
  


“Dad’s gone hunting, and he hasn’t called in a few days.”


	4. For Electricity

I wasn’t really aware of it when I first became a prophet. There was . . . so much feeling at first, it was hard to separate out a single sensation. I couldn’t stop myself because I could feel the words pressing at the back of my mind and aching to be let out. I didn’t have the words, and I had to find them.

 

The most overwhelming part faded when I first held the Word, but things just kept happening. Even when I wasn’t looking at the word, lightning lingered on my tongue. There was some great weight pressing down upon me, and no matter where I was, I always smelled old books and water and greenery. There had been times, in the Leviathan's prison cell, Crowley’s warehouse, the multitude of abandoned buildings in between, Garth’s boat, and the Men of Letters bunker, where I knew I wasn’t alone.

 

I once asked Sam and Dean about the things I read in the bunker. They had the complete Winchester gospels, and they seemed very unhappy about that once I pointed them out. But that isn’t what I got out of those books. What I found was that prophets were supposed to be watched by an archangel. Sam looked vaguely guilty when I asked him about that.

 

“Er, sorry Kevin. All of the archangels, well . . . they’re either dead or trapped in hell. There’s no one left to look after you.”

 

I hadn’t read that far yet. I read on.

 

()

 

“Well, I guess you’ll be staying with me for a couple of days,” Jessica says as we Dean and Sam drive off in the Impala.

 

“Surprisingly enough, I don’t actually mind,” I reply. Jessica looks down at me with the beginnings of surprise before she remembers Sam’s story and shakes her head and reaches over to ruffle my hair.

 

“Come on. Let’s see what we’ve got for breakfast.”

 

I glance at the empty road before I shut the door and follow behind her.

 

()

 

Jessica goes out after the breakfast to get some more food, and she jokingly told me not to make any trouble while she was out. I smiled like that was the last thing I wanted, and waved her goodbye as she walked off.

 

The moment the door was closed as I scrambled around the apartment, looking for glue and cruising that I hadn’t thought to bring any. I manage to find some tacky glue in a box with a bunch of fabric scraps, and I grab it and run to the kitchen. I grab a chair, and the  jar of salt from the cupboard.

 

First, I do the door, putting a line of tacky glue along the frame, and liberally salting it. Then I line the windows, one by one, with glue and salt. When I’m done with every entrance I can find, I put everything back where I found it, and sweep up the salt that spilled off as I laid the lines.

 

I glance around and sigh. There really isn’t much to do here other than watch TV, and after so long living it, I didn’t really want to watch fictional conflicts.

 

()

 

I remember the first chapter of the Supernatural books - the chapter where Jessica dies. I remember that it was a demon that killed her.

 

I keep a handful of salt in my pocket, and insist on going out with her whenever she leaves after that first time. She gives me a bemused look when I insist on going out to get groceries with her before she shakes her head and ruffles my hair.

 

“Alright.”

 

That was the second day Sam was gone.

 

The third day is Sunday, and luckily Jessica seems to be fine with staying in and watching TV all day. I sit down on the couch next to her with the super soaker. I can’t help getting up and going to check the salt lines around the house every hour, despite the glued line of salt on the blanket I spread under the couch.

 

Jessica gets makes a lunch of scrambled eggs and pancakes at noon, and I watch her - I watch the windows behind her. She makes the both of us mac’n’cheese for dinner, then she makes chocolate chip cookies when she’s done washing the dishes. She piles half of them onto a plate and pours two glasses of milk, before transporting the whole lot back over to the coffee table.

 

The sun goes down. I wait. At eight, I notice Jessica glance at the clock anxiously. At eight thirty, my arbitrarily decided bedtime, she turns off the TV and stretches.

 

“Alright, Kevin. I’ll be in the bedroom if you need me.”

 

“I know,” I reply.

 

()

 

Adam groaned in frustration as he pushed away the book. He’d been trying to study for the last thirty minutes, but something buzzing in the back of his brain just wouldn’t shut off or get quiet enough for him to concentrate.

 

It reminded him vaguely of the times he’d gone running to the forest to move a stone three feet, but it wasn’t a ley line. He’d made doubly sure of that with Gansey before he’d come to Stanford. But something was vibrating in the web of energy, and calling desperately for help to anyone who could hear.

 

His hands and eyes had been his own since Cabeswater died. But the fact that he had once offered them gave him a perspective - and a sense of the world - that was rather unique.

 

(At least, that’s how Blue put it. Ronan just called him a sorry ass loser who was a sucker for people in need.)

 

In his left ear, he could hear a noise like crickets chirping (the sound of electricity). He glanced up in the ceiling for a moment, before he pushed himself away from the desk.

 

“You leaving?” his roommate asked as he stuffed his wallet and phone into his pocket.

 

“Yeah, I need to get some air.”

 

The reply was lost in the sound of the door closing behind Adam, and he paused to take a breath.

 

He tapped out a quick message as he made his way downstairs, and sent it after a glance out into the night.

 

()

 

I find myself pacing the length of the room. The minty taste of toothpaste lingers on my tongue as I glance at the closed door like that will make things go any faster. I pause every couple of minutes to listen to the silence before I resume my pacing. There isn’t even a clock to break up the silence.

 

I glance over at the door. Jessica had said if I need anything, I should get her. I don’t need anything.

 

_ Right, Kevin. Of  _ course _ you don’t need anything, it’s not like sanity is all that important. No, you an go ahead and - breathe - wheel yourself into a mental institution. _

 

()

 

Adam glances down the street as he crosses it. His phone buzzes in his pocket. Probably a response to the text he sent earlier. He ignores it. He turns and starts jogging down the street.

 

The buzzing starts again after a minute. It blends in with the rising hum of electricity in his ears.

 

He glances up at the apartment building.

 

()

 

Maybe I should go talk to her anyways. I glance at the door to the hallway. I should tell her what to do. A hunter won’t always be here to protect her.

 

()

 

Adam glances over the door. The building’s old, but its bones are steady. The lock is strong.

 

He tapps the door handle with a finger. The door slides open silently. He glances right the turns and takes the stairs.

 

()

 

I stop my pacing abruptly. I stare at the door to the hallway. The sound again, like someone trying to pick a lock quietly. I grab the tape recorder from the bed.

 

()

 

Adam glances up. There’s something there. Something dark. Something ugly.

 

He flicks his wrist in a motion both familiar and foreign. Warm hard metal slides into his hand.

 

()

 

I unlock the door.

 

()

 

Adam moves silently up the last few steps, and behind the ugly thing crouched in front of the door. This is where he was being called. A sound plays from behind the door, and bindings appear around the darkness. It stiffens and scrambles backwards.

 

It knocks into Adam’s legs, and blank darkness rolls back into terrified normal eyes. The bindings tighten further and brace themselves -

 

black smoke boils out

 

silver flashes and cuts through the shadow

 

atoms are wrenched apart

 

()

 

I open the door.

 

()

 

Adam looks up into a face he’s never seen before, a face as familiar as Gansey’s face.

 

()

 

“You,” the man gasps. “Kevin Tran.”

 

Static electricity on my tongue. I drop to my knees the tape recorder discarded on the floor.

  
“You.” I stare. “Archangel.”


End file.
